


could you look at my chart (help me heal these scars?)

by badboy_fangirl



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He feels like shit, it's fucking Christmas Day, and the only thing he can think to do to make himself feel better is build a fire in the fireplace in his bedroom and drink until he can't think anymore.</i> [Post episode fic for 3x09.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	could you look at my chart (help me heal these scars?)

**Author's Note:**

> The song "Honey, Don't Think" by Grant Lee Buffalo inspired this fic, and is quoted in the title and beginning excerpt, as well as traciaknows, who requested a fic where Elena noticed some scars on Damon's back.

  
_Could you learn to read minds?  
And in the case of mine  
Do you read in the dark?_   


 

He feels like shit, it's fucking Christmas Day, and the only thing he can think to do to make himself feel better is build a fire in the fireplace in his bedroom and drink until he can't think anymore.

Drink until he can't remember that nearly every other day he almost loses Elena in some catastrophe which should prevent him from drinking altogether; drink until he forgets that his brother has gone completely nuts, and not in the good way; drink until the only pain he feels is _no pain_ and forget, for just a little while.

Because that's really all that he's got. His moments of forgetfulness due to his friends _whiskey_ and _bourbon_.

"Damon, what're you doing?" she asks, standing in the doorway of his room, judging him from a distance of fifteen feet.

"Go away, Elena," he mutters, not even looking at her. He cleaned up after their latest survival of the fittest, but he's laying on the carpet in front of the fireplace in nothing but a towel. It's cinched around his waist, and he'd jerk it off if he thought it would make her leave, but she's Elena, and it won't. She'd just cover him up and lecture him some more.

"Seriously," she says, coming to stand over his prone body. "What are you doing?"

He rolls over on to his stomach so he's not looking at her. "Nothing. I'm doing abso-fucking-lutely nothing."

He feels her squat down beside him. "It's sort of funny how you get all emo like this. You remind me of a child sometimes."

Her tone is soft, and she's not berating him; it's a gentle musing, like she finds him somewhat endearing.

(Somehow that's more irritating to him than a reprimand would be.)

"Go away," he repeats, and he closes his eyes. He'd been watching the flames through the crystal of his whiskey decanter, but he doesn't need to see the fire. He can feel the heat on his flesh, and it seems to be chasing away the stiffness in his limbs from the earlier altercation. (Well, that, and the pint of blood he'd downed when he first got home. And maybe Elena's presence is somehow helping, too, even though he's trying to make her leave.)

When her fingers slide over his lower back, he nearly jumps out of his skin. "What are these?" she asks, and he's really, really glad he turned over. If she had touched him like that while he was face-up...well, a few of them might be embarrassed right now.

He reaches back and grabs her hand, pushing it away and then rubs his fingers over what she's asking about. He hasn't thought of or been asked about it in so long, he'd almost forgotten. His human years are nothing but distant, mostly surreal memories anyway, and the bad things were the first to go.

"Oh, that. I was whipped, as a child."

"What?" Elena says, and now she sounds horrified, which is silly.

"You know," he says with a sigh. "When I misbehaved, my father would take me out back with a switch and whip me. It was very typical during that time. Remember, I was born in 1839."

"Stefan doesn't have any marks like that," she says, still upset.

He turns his head towards her, lifts his neck slightly. "Stefan was the fair-haired boy, Elena. He never got in trouble. But me, I always had to test my father's patience."

Her eyes are wells of sorrow, some kind of terrible sympathy for him leaking from them. It has the same effect on his heart that her fingertips had on his cock. It twitches violently in his chest, so he drops his head back to the floor and closes his eyes. "That's awful," she whispers, and her hand goes back, her palm settling gently over the scars.

"I deserved it," he replies, swallowing a groan as her hand sweeps up his back. She rubs it across his shoulder blades and then runs her fingers down the crevice of his spine. "What're you doing?" he asks, his eyes opening of their own volition.

Her gaze is on his back, seemingly following her hand's progression over his body, and she doesn't look at his face, but he can tell it's because she's trying very hard _not_ to look at his face. "Sometimes...sometimes these things happen, like tonight. There was a split second when you were fighting Klaus that I thought for sure you were going to die."

"You and me both, honey," he snorts.

"I don't like it, Damon. I don't like the idea of...you dying, and me...I," she trails off, and just as the caressing motion of her hand against his spine seems to be making him very sleepy, her eyes meet his, and he's anything but tired. "I don't want that to happen, but I really don't want it to happen without me...without _us_...you know. _You know._ "

If he were being his typical self, he'd make her explain it. He'd be all _I know...what?_ and he'd force her to say it. He'd tease her until her cheeks were on fire, and until she was so pissed at him she didn't want to fuck him anymore.

(Because he knows she wants to fuck him; he's known that for a long time.)

But he wants to love her before he dies, and since she seems to think they're on a course toward utter destruction and it's bringing her to the same conclusion, the only thing he can really do is prop himself up on his side and cup her face in his hand. He draws her lips to his, presses his mouth against hers and waits for her to change her mind.

(She doesn't.)

In fact, her enthusiasm overwhelms him quite a bit, and before he knows it, he's on his back with her on top of him and she's pushing his towel away. It doesn't take him long to reverse their positions and get her just as naked, but he sort of loses his mind when that happens. She's so beautiful, not that he thought she could be anything but, but still. Her breasts fill his palms and her legs coil around his, and she breathes his name against his throat, and he just goes crazy.

She falls asleep under him, her face as peaceful and serene as it was once, when she didn't know she was dating a vampire, or that his evil brother was in her bedroom uninvited.

He lies next to her, realizing the impossible has happened. This had been more than sex for Elena (of course it had) and only because he's a moron did he think it would ever be less for her.

But he knows, he knows that whatever she feels for him, it's not enough to hold her to him. He'd be able to handle her using him for sex; he'll never be able to survive her not loving him enough.

(He barely survived that with Katherine, and this in no way compares.)

He watches her for a long time, memorizes all the things about her that make it obvious he made love to her–small bruises forming on her hips and thighs, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair wild from his hands.

Before he leaves, he scoops her into his arms and tucks her into his bed.

He doesn't leave a note.


End file.
